


hike up your fishnets, i know you.

by deitheo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Peter Nureyev Needs a Hug, Self-Harm, Trans Juno Steel, Trans Peter Nureyev, and he uses it! golly!, author projects onto nureyev, everyone is trans because im trans and i don't know cis people, juno is the one with the emotional intelligence, mind the trigger warnings this one is a doozie, no betrayev of any sorts. this is not a thing here, peter nureyev go to therapy challenge, there might be comfort in chap 2 or 3 if i get better, vespa care peter? vespa begrudgingly care peter, vespa is a good doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deitheo/pseuds/deitheo
Summary: Juno Steel was right to leave.Because Peter Nureyev was not good enough, and Juno Steel knew that. Juno Steel knew that and that's why he left.This kind of thing will never happen to Peter Ransom.--please read the notes in the beginning, this work IS extremely triggering!also title from dilaudid by the mountain goats
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	1. great, unstable mass of blood and foam.

**Author's Note:**

> this work deals quite heavily with topics such as eating disorders, self-harm, negative body-image and just rawdogging your army of mental illnesses so hard that you don't understand anything except what they tell you. it is quite explicit. i am not going to tell you what to do, i'm not your dad - just proceed with caution and try to know that the world sometimes is good and you sometimes are enough. welcome to me hardcore projecting.

Juno Steel was right to leave. 

When Peter Nureyev wraps himself in the thin blanket, he is sure of that. And he allows himself to prolong this - to be the same person that was left by Juno Steel for a little while longer. So, for the first time in what feels like eternities, but really is twenty-something years, he lets himself indulge. 

Peter Nureyev cries into a pillow. Peter Nureyev eats his weight in the greasiest food available to him.

Peter? 

Vomits everything back up. Cries in the shower again. Someone nameless empties the liquor cupboard, kneels on the bathroom floor and presses their long nails into the back of their throat so hard there is blood. He doesn’t cry anymore. He sits down on the porcelain tiles and it is so cold, and he is still undressed. So he understands.

Everything is so crystal-clear, he could cry again, maybe from relief, maybe from exhaustion. Of course, he was left. (He would never say the name now, because the person who has been left that night in this room did not exist any longer, hence, the exact memories serve no purpose.) He was imperfect. He showed his flaws, his weak spots, did not time the words he said correctly, and then expected something in return? He was an idiot: Ju-...

That person deserved someone perfect and they knew that, that is why they left after he became too clingy. He should have been better. He should have been better.

He feels his hands shaking. The tremor starts to grow and soon it’s as if his whole body wants to collapse in on itself, but this time he will not let himself be a failure. So he thinks for one more minute. 

Peter Ransom brings a shaking hand to his face and slaps himself as hard as he can. It stings, the shaking starts to fade and he does it again. When his hand comes away sore but perfectly still, with no traces of tremor left, he knows he can get up and assess himself in the mirror - there is a full-body one in the suite, which would be perfect for him. 

Peter Ransom looks at the body previously inhabited by Peter Nureyev and winces in disgust. There are several things that need urgent attention: there is way too much fat on the thighs and the stomach (he touches it and suppresses a gag), actually, everywhere, this body feels gross. The face is no better - granted, Miasma’s dungeons were no spa resort, but should he not have found two minutes to lessen the damage done there? He should. Peter Ransom pokes, stretches and inspects: wrinkles, eyebags and a horrendous pimple near his hairline - he lands another hit on his cheek for it, his face couldn’t become that much worse, and he deserves pain. Next he tries his memory: the languages are, thankfully, fine. Я стану лучше. Je serai meilleur. θα είμαι καλύτερα. Ich werde mich bessern. I will be better. The memory is still fine, though, the speed of his thought patterns has slowed - he tries a few mathematics questions and watches himself punch his own stomach every time the solution takes more than a minute.

And then he writes it all down. Rules and regulations, things to do and not to do, everything to make and fake, spots where he failed before and will never fail now, the step-by-step guide to the perfect Peter Ransom on the hotel notepad. He was not going to fail anymore. He was not going to be turned down for not being good enough anymore.

The year of Peter Ransom looks absolutely luxurious from the outside. 

The year of Peter Ransom is perfectly executed heists, pearls and diamonds laying across his neck. It’s the click-clack of high heels against the floors of expensive apartment buildings, and it is the little “ah” that comes out of a person’s throat when he pushes that heel down on their chest. It is the year of chess. The year of champagne. The year of “letting himself” be seduced by wealthy men, the perfect “o” his lips make, and the sharp glow of his canines behind them - the year of making every angle perfect. 

From the inside, the year is the pain of making himself perfect. And when some part of himself tries to tell him he was tired, or hungry, or slipping away, he just brings it back to reality with a good slap. It doesn't really matter that he has to do it multiple times a day - he is getting better. He takes a little book everywhere with him - his accountability journal, the replacement for a little stack of hotel-paper-notes that got crumpled in his pocket. The food he ate, the exercise he did, the things he worked on, what he studied, how he progressed and how he failed during the day. Everything had to be written down and counted. He is alone - taking on work, yes, but with no externalities to keep him watched in any way, so he has the freedom of extending himself as far as he wants. He only lets himself faint in hotel bathrooms and only tastes bile in his throat three times a week at most. Peter Ransom never slips up.

Then he feels he needs more. That he is not holding himself accountable enough for his shortcomings - he had to have an extra meal replacement, failed to do an extra hour of work, slept in for four minutes, he felt the need to punish himself, immediately, he needed to be held to the standard. So he looks at himself in the mirror, scrunches up his nose in hatred, takes the smallest knife in his collection and slices into his own thigh. It feels exactly right. He didn’t do well enough so he deserved to be hurt. He adds an another page to his book:

E. ov. 5.0 p. - 2 c.,  
Ea. pt wrkt. skip - 3 c.,  
Wrk. mstk. - 10 c.,  
Cnvrs. mstk. - 4 c.,  
Wght. g. - 5 c/1 p.

His thighs are no longer perfectly clean, but he knows what angle to be in to never let anyone know. The scars heal up neatly - a nice bunch of white lines - a reminder of his failures. The steps to becoming perfect.

When Peter Ransom strikes a deal with Buddy Aurinko, he is as charming as could be. Confident, lithe, knowing what and what not to say, perfect. He counts it as a conversation mistake, because the pauses were way too long for his own liking, because he had to rely on a person he would rather forget.

The conversation mistake still burns on his thigh when he leans on the hood of the Ruby-7, scolds himself for eating at all that day, because he could have looked better, keeps his composure and produces the most charming of his smiles, as if everything around him - the stars, the ship, the car - is his home.

\- Hello, Juno. It's been a while. - And he cannot wait to go back in private to count this as ten thousand conversation mistakes at once.


	2. and no one in their right mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again hi hello it's the author! peter is unhealthy, there are descriptions of self-harm, unhealthy coping mechanisms, eating disorders of various kinds and very fucked up though patterns. pls stay careful!

Even though Peter Ransom is a liar, he is quite honest with himself. And he knows that hurting himself has become a need rather than a punishment. That is why conversation mistakes are an indulgence at this point, and everyone is oh-so-ready to provide. 

When he feels like he’s slacking, or that his entire existence is an irredeemable crime that he needs to pay for, he takes a stroll on the Carte Blanche. 

Having a little chat with Rita is simply pleasant, saying a few words to Buddy counts as nothing, getting a suspicious look from Jet can be counted as a mistake (you could have gone the other way, Peter. You knew where he would be. But you decided to go there. Tsk.). Vespa is a real treat, even though once she catches him counting on his fingers behind his back, and yells some more, which is embarrassing, but perfect for the greater good. He is a suspicious character, so easy to make a villain out of, especially with Vespa. Certainly he would be making so many mistakes with her.

But then there is Juno. And Juno is complicated, because, of course, everything he says with Juno is a mistake, but what is particularly gruesome is that even Peter Ransom doesn’t want it to be. Peter Ransom doesn’t want to make mistakes with Juno Steel.

Because Juno Steel looked at him again, agreed to talk (Cnvrs. mstk. - 4, 5, 3, 2…). Tried to explain why he’d left, but Peter wouldn’t let him - both Nureyev and Ransom knew and hearing that out loud, especially when Juno was there, holding his hand, looking at him in the eyes, proving his point so tenderly, would be too much. Juno wanted him again, because he got better - that is all that mattered. So he allowed himself to relish in the attention, because the work started to pay off. 

But he can never stop now.

He needs to be even harsher. Peter Ransom looks at himself in the mirror and sees Peter Nureyev again, and it is terrifying. Peter Nureyev is flawed: fat, stupid, slow, emotional, left behind. And because Juno chose him again, he needs to be perfect, and perfect means none of these things. 

Even though the family bonds are becoming stronger, the conversation mistakes growing smaller and further apart, his thighs and hips are always sore. He hasn’t worn trousers that are not black in a while, because his system gets more and more rigid with every day. If he used to punish himself for gaining weight before, now he does so for not losing, the “mistakes” are split into plots and graphs and each has its own list, points, meanings and calculations. The journal grows more filled with entries, rules and identifications. What does it mean when Juno smiles all crooked like that? And when Buddy gives him this tired but sympathetic look? Is two hours of multi-subject study enough or should he strive for three every day? Does this count towards a failure or a pass to live without clawing through his own skin? Identifying these things is hard, but he takes pleasure in it.

And he sees himself getting better. Smaller, sharper, faster. His head is clearer, his skin looks better, everything starts to finally come closer to be one percent worthy. Of being here, being with Juno, damn it, of being alive. 

He manages to keep it to himself. Dropping near-dead onto his own floor after closing the door, puking out family meals, gripping his scarred thigh while putting a perfectly-white veneer onto his bile-damaged teeth. That is for nobody to see. Just for him - the punishment for ever being Peter Nureyev, the promise to never return, the scream, the grip, the punch-into-the-air (is it his own chest?) for the fact that he was so gross, so unworthy, that he was thrown out. And Peter Ransom will never let himself forget this.

But strength can only last so long. He can only run so far on zero-fat nutrition supplements and trips to the bathroom after every family meal. Even though he is so good at disguises, he eventually has to slip, and while Peter Ransom brings his fist to his bleeding thigh as a promise not to and muffles his scream into a pillow, what is left of Peter Nureyev almost wants to be caught. But he would never do that on purpose. So he hides the bandages, scales and supplement cans in the everpresent horrible mess of his room - the only way he allows himself to be imperfect, just because it works in his favor, - and schedules his workouts for the earliest hours of morning. Because the perfect Peter Ransom can endure that and more. 

Until he can’t. 

In the stupidest, most ridiculous way he can’t. Because it is a calm night on the ship, they have had their family dinner, and he has already rid himself of it under the guise of needing to take some medicine (what a perfect little lie - “Do excuse me, I need to take my medicine after each meal, and I am not quite used to doing that with people around. Once again, I will be back shortly, it was a delightful meal.”), they are having a break, and he is sitting in the armchair with everyone focused on some stream Rita picked up. It is quiet in his head, and everything seems normal. 

“Would anyone like a drink, I wanted to pick up a…” 

Peter Ransom decides to stand up and pour himself a glass of lemon water from the kitchen, maybe entertain the idea of Juno following him there and spending a few minutes in heaven. Being useful and making less mistakes with the family as well. But he does not even get to finish the sentence, because the world is spinning and black, and the ground suddenly is the ceiling, and Peter Ransom is no longer there.

…

“Shut it, Steel, he’s fine. Just fainted, take his shit and get out of the ward, I still need to run some tests.”

Vespa’s voice is the first thing he hears when he is back, but for some reason it is less… Hateful? Before that the only thing he could hear with Vespa was malice, so he loved talking to her (Cnvrs. mstk. 10.), but now it feels faded - still angry, but less vicious. As if he is no longer the villain of her story. He shuts his eyes tighter and pretends to be out again.

“Cut it out, Ransom, I know you’re up. I pumped you full of adrenaline, only a dead man wouldn’t wake up. Though you were pretty damn close.” He opens his eyes and sees Vespa hunched over the little metal table where the monitor stands. He doesn’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything except one thing: he fucked up. Royally. And he needs to find a way out, quick.

“Surely, I do not think this was necessary.” His voice comes out weak and he dreams of passing out again, forever this time. “I just fainted slightly, I believe it was the weather — you do know about the medicine I take, it is in fact for the weather sickness.”

“Stop. Bullshitting me. “Surely” you don’t fucking think you can dupe me into believing that? First of all, you don’t take any fucking meds, I ran a blood test, there is no additional medicine to be seen.” Her voice is coarse, and her grip on the table is hard. Peter closes his eyes and puts one finger down. Cnvrs. Mstk. 1. Soon he can be done with this, right? Surely, she just thinks he is plotting her demise or some sort of universal plan to get everyone but him dead. “You know what else I didn’t find? Anything. Your sugar levels are nonexistent, not to mention the vitamins or the anemia! This very fucking fall could kill your stupid self, Ransom, and that is just based on your blood.”

That is an. Unexpected turn of events. Well, he needs to act accordingly.

“Oh. Well, there must be a problem with me properly digesting the food, I guess. Is there anythi—“

He does not have the opportunity to finish the sentence. Vespa swings around, eyes wild and fierce, her face scrunched in a mixture of what Peter Ransom reads as disgust and fury at him wasting her time but what everyone else knows is compassion and rage. He only just realizes he is not wearing his overshirt, just the tight turtleneck, because her hand is planted tight on his chest and it hurts so much. Her hand is strong, and his ribs feel like they are going to collapse. 

“Stop lying to me. I know. I had to take the IVs through your pants and your shirt. I’ve seen everything you’ve done to yourself, Ransom.”

Her eyes are glowing and her hand is so rough and he feels like he’s choking. Finally she notices that he is quite close to passing out again and takes her hand off him.

“Shit. I’m sorry, Ransom, I just… I got so fucking angry at you! Because you were so close to death, actual, physical, human death, because of stuff that you did to yourself and you did jack shit about it, didn’t even fucking ask anyone. Didn’t even talk to Steel, for fuck’s sake, he’s—“

“He absolutely has no reason to know about any of this. Juno deserves a good partner. So that is what I am trying to…” 

“Steel deserves an alive partner, and you are trying to become fucking dead!”

Peter exhales and tries to shut his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about this. The fact that Vespa knows, and that means that Buddy knows by proxy. That it all means he needs to restructure his plans and be even more careful with everything he does. That he needs to stand up at some point. 

Vespa puts her hand back on his chest but no longer pushes. She looks at him and something in her eyes is almost soft. 

“Look. I put some nutrients into you through that IV. It’s done, should fill your nutritional needs enough so you can walk without dying. You understand Buddy will know about all that. I mean she suspected, but I will tell her everything that I saw. Now I’ll unhook you and you go talk to Steel, taking him off you was almost impossible. You can lie to him — I don’t care. But tomorrow you will be here, and so will Buddy, and we’ll figure out how to keep you alive the best we can. We don’t fucking want you dead, Ransom.”

Something in his heart shifts. Maybe she really means it. He will have to see, he will have to find other arguments to prove this point, because false hope is worse than no hope. For now he just thinks about what route to take next.

“Okay. Even though I do believe this is unnecessary, I cannot deny the wishes of our captain. Now, I think I do have to comfort Juno.”

Thankfully, he only sees Rita on his way to Juno’s quarters. Rita is always sweet.

“Oh mistah Ransom we were so worried! Mistah Steel was holding your shirt like it’s a pillow and we’re watching a real scary stream at night in pyjamas, and mistah Jet had to give him a rundown of why people faint, and he got real tense and went back to his rooms. You’re looking real pale and skinny though, mistah Ransom I’d never seen ya wear that, you really need to eat better, I’ll save you my salmon snacks for tomorrow night, they’re real good! Now go to bed pretty please, you rest!”

He says something equally sweet and dreads the idea of salmon snacks. Juno. Quarters. Need to come up with a plan.

Peter knocks on the door to Juno’s room. 

“Come in.”

Juno is sitting on the bed, his legs folded under, lights turned down low but still illuminating him so nicely. Juno, Juno, he is so beautiful like this, and Peter mustn’t allow him to see something this ugly. 

“Hello, darling. As you can see, I am rather fine, it was quite a fluke, so, —“

“Nureyev,..”

Peter’s heart sinks. Juno is holding his journal in his hands.


	3. would make my home their home.

When Juno starts talking he almost hears nothing. Only his voice, worried and nervous and angry, of course he is angry. Peter lied to him, he tricked him into thinking that he got better, that he became someone worthy to be with, and now he got found out. Juno knows that he is still the same, or worse: bruised, scarred, ugly. Stupid. 

“Nureyev, are you listening? I know I’m no poet like you but I’m trying to say something, you know? Please just sit down maybe?” 

His legs are shaky, and he is trying to gather whatever is left of strong-smart-beautiful Peter Ransom in him as he walks to the bed and straightens his back. There are still ways where he can make things right. He can lie again, he can make excuses, he can do better, throw up in places nobody on this ship knows, exercise more, keep learning and still keep Juno, even though he knows. Because, surely, he understands. He knows that this new Peter is so much better, so much more worthy of attention, so of course he will let him be. This is just a momentary inconvenience. He showed weakness, and was going to get punished for it. Today, maybe, not just by himself. This is good. 

“Yes, Juno. Sorry, I was too caught up in trying to phrase my apologies, so what you said to me right now might have escaped me.” He does not know which mask this is, but he is sitting straight enough to fill more space, and his voice does not waver. He. Smiles. Shows the appropriate amount of remorse, but says almost what he truly feels, because he is sure that is exactly what needs to happen. “I am so sorry, Juno. I should not have let you see me in such a state. I also want to apologize for making you worry — I never should have. I would like you to know that this is not a usual occurrence for me, I do not often get that weak, so, please, do not bother yourself with these thoughts, it really is nothing at all to think about.”

Juno watches. 

Nureyev. Always so perfect, always so under control, it didn’t even get into his head before that there would be something like this under those layers of studied excellence. Insecurity, tiredness, anger, hell, even malice, sure! Everyone had some sort of demon and Juno knew Nureyev had his, even though they were hidden so well. He just didn’t expect they hadn’t all crawled out of his head back on Mars. He thought he knew. He thought Nureyev had a similar progression to his — realizing things, growing, making himself into a whole person.

But looking at him now, it was obvious that he was wrong. The man in front of him spent the past year or even more digging himself deeper and deeper, trying to stuff himself back into some sort of hell. It had stamped itself on him. In the plaster-cast smile, in how small he looked without his overshirt, in how Nureyev looked at him right now, smiling and absolutely ready to get left alone again.

“What the hell are you talking about? No! Shit, Nureyev, it’s me who should be sorry! I didn’t understand jack shit, it took you collapsing in front of everyone and Vespa yelling at me to go through your stuff for me to turn on my brain.” Now Peter looks shocked and ready to say ten thousand more reassuring things, but Juno is not done. Not by a long shot.

“Look, you don’t have to talk. I’d actually prefer if you didn’t, because you’re going to say shit like everything is your fault and I’m the victim of big bad scary Peter Nureyev. And that just isn’t very convincing. Just try to listen to me, okay?”

Peter looks down for a second and then nods. There is no longer a smile on his face. He is so scared. The only thing he wants right now is for Juno to hold his hand, but he would never believe that that would be an earnest move. He’s just doing that to stop you from moping. Suck it up. 

“The thing is, nobody is guilty, Nureyev. Please, look, you apologize so much for fainting and feeling unwell and making me upset or, what I actually hear, disappointed, it’s almost like you think that all of this is your fault. But it isn’t. Bad things happen to people, sometimes you get a broken leg, sometimes you get a broken brain, and you’re not at fault for having it.”

The look on Juno’s face was so soft, it was almost like he was not angry. It felt impossible to believe in. And Peter needed to warn him. 

“I do not understand you, Juno. You read the diary where I kept everything together. You realize I did everything to myself. What kind of point are you trying to make? This is not a pretty story where the damsel in distress gets saved — I did things to myself, certainly, but I do not consider them bad. I did them to become better. I might have slipped here and there, like now — that hurt people. So why all the talk about nobody being guilty while the culprit is so clear?”

But he does not sound sure. His voice is more tired than assertive, the look in his eyes is distant and when Juno Steel takes his hand, Peter Nureyev shivers. 

“Juno. You are giving me hope. Please do not, if,-”

“I know, Nureyev. That’s why I am. I know my promises and the hope I can give you are not worth much, but you can maybe see how I am different from those days. When we met again, I thought we both did similar things, learned to live on our own, learned that pain was unnecessary, learned so much more, hell, I hoped that. But it wasn’t true! You tried so hard, you made yourself into some sort of ideal that existed in your head and you completely destroyed yourself doing that. Goddamnit, I can’t imagine what it felt like when after you did it, I suddenly waltzed back.”

“Juno, how..?” His eyes are watering. Peter Nureyev cannot understand how one can comprehend everything like that. And why after understanding that Juno would still be holding his hand so gently. 

“Because we’re pretty much two different sides of the same coin — when I get broken i tell myself that I am fundamentally wrong and leave it as the basis of whatever I call myself. You stand up and make a better version of yourself, while beating yourself up every day for ever making a mistake. But that’s not what I want to say. I realize how fucking insane it must have felt to have me back after you did all that to yourself - you thought you were right, you had to push harder, and I didn’t know. I was just happy you welcomed me back, without realizing it was you who was craving to be properly welcomed back.”

“And what happens now? That you know?”

He did not realize his hand was shaking. But Peter Nureyev needed the words. Without euphemisms or metaphors — the things he himself knows too well, he just needs a “yes” or a “no”.

“Juno. I find all the things you say very difficult to understand. But. I am willing, though, before that, please, answer. Now that you know. Are you-”

“Yes. I don’t know for sure what kind of question this was, but i can guess, Nureyev, yes. I am staying right here. I am not going to leave you. I know it is hard to trust me, but right now these are the only things I can do — say these words, keep being with you. Because I want to. You know, see what happens next in the year of Peter Nureyev.”

There is a possibility for them to continue talking, but Nureyev is worn out. So they decide not to. Peter Nureyev feels imperfect in every way: not talking much, letting Juno take the pile of books away from the bed, standing close to the wall in case he starts falling again. His brain is slow and his body is slack. But Juno is, for some reason, still there. Juno. Who saw his worst and still decided to stay.

Peter Nureyev wants to stay awake while Juno seems to be already asleep — he wants to be sure that if he leaves, he can catch every step of it. But his exhaustion is too powerful. He falls asleep clinging to Juno’s hand.

…

When Nureyev wakes up, he finds himself pressed against the soft fabric of the t-shirt Juno fell asleep in. He’s there. There are smudges of makeup on the sleeve where he pressed his face into at night. Juno is holding his hand firmly in his sleep. 

It is scary. 

But maybe he could stand to see the year of Peter Nureyev.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yea. that is it. i wanted to write a more uplifting ending and *show* him getting better but that uh. couldn't happen. so here is the next best thing - a reminder of sorts. something about hope, yadda yadda yadda. yea. if i write the other thing that will just be a follow-up fic. thanks folks stay safe


End file.
